Jigsaw puzzle
by Svetlanacat
Summary: Those are pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, drabbles, ficlets written from various prompts, words, images, all about Illya and Napoleon. Many of them are rather slash.
1. Chapter 1: Blowing in the wind

_This was written on the prompt Wind ( slashthedrabble)_

**The answer, my friend...**

_He's gone._

I saw him. He stood in the alley, his back to the cabin, his back to me. Sand-colored locks were flying in the breeze.

I could have answered him.

_The wind is whisking the sand off the floor, bringing it back, again and again._

I saw him walking towards the road, barefoot, carrying his shoes.

I could have told him.

The wind was blowing, wirling, again and again, erasing footprints, mercilessly.

I saw him by the roadside, putting his shoes on, his back to the cabin, his back to me, and walking away. Sand-colored locks were flying in the breeze.

I could have called him.

_The wind is whisking the sand off the floor, bringing it back, again and again._

"I love you."

He smiled gently, picked up his shoes, and left.

I could have called him, told him, answered him.

_The sand is flowing through my hopeless fingers, swept along by the wind._

_I whisper in the breeze, again and again._

_The words are flowing through my powerless lips, swept along by the wind._

"_I love you."_

_Fingers are squeezing mine, holding back the sand._

_Lips are brushing mine, holding back the words._

_He's here._


	2. Chapter 2: Perfect Balance

This was written as an answer to a prompt from slashthesimage, a balance...

_The best and safest thing is to keep a balance in your life, acknowledge the great powers around us and in us. If you can do that, and live that way, you are really a wise man._  
><em>Euripides<em>

The window was covered with frost, with an inextricable mix of amazing white and silver flowers, sparkling in the moonlight. He put his hand on the pane, and grimaced. It was cold, outside, so cold that the ice didn't melt, in spite on the warmth, inside. His fingers didn't leave any traces. It was the end of winter. Anywhere else, you would notice it. Not here. He sighed.

-Ice patterns are amazing. Each frost flower is unique. It's a symbol of infinity... A so short-lived one, by the way.

The smooth, calm, peaceful voice gave him a start and he turned to the other man, still kneeling down on the floor, next to the fireplace, his back to him, his blond hair glittering by the flames.

-Tell me, which color do you prefer, Napoleon?

The Russian was at the moment looking at him, inquiringly, the blue eyes wide open, the deft fingers holding a minuscule cutter above the threatening device.

A word went out his lips. It was pure reflex, pure instinct. Then he stiffened, waiting for the apocalypse, as his partner was bending over the evil mechanism. When a hand tapped him on the shoulder, he realized that he had closed his eyes. Illya Kuryakin brushed some imaginary dust away from his friend's lapel, shaking his head.

-You didn't even let me tell you the colors, Napoleon!

Napoleon Solo chuckled and replied, raising his hands.

-That's why we're so good! You are the technician, I am ... pure instinct. It's a perfect balance, Illya!

The Russian pursed his lips, and the dark haired man frowned. His partner looked like to be about to pout. But a mischievous smile appeared, and Illya Kuryakin, coming closer, kissed him, whispering in his ear.

-There was no blue wire, my so instinctive friend.


	3. Chapter 3: Privacy

PRIVACY

Everyone takes care not to intrude on your privacy, nor into your affairs. It's a socially implicit rule by which everyone in Uncle HQ abides. After work, at night, you head through the city for your home. What you do is your own business.

It works. Uncle agents are efficient, skilled, well-trained. Intelligence agents, of course. Those who know all about everybody (One exception is the Number 1, Section 1, Alexander Waverly) : who, where, when, how, and above all, with whom. None of the Intelligence agents would admit their only failure.

_What the hell is Illya Kuryakin doing when he goes home?_

If he goes home. Let's be quite clear about it. The Russian likes jazz music, books, food. Everyone knows that. So, he frequents jazz café, libraries, restaurants. Don't get carried away: you'll see him alone, or with his partner, Napoleon Solo, the CEA, a well known ( and beloved) womanizer. At least, and that's a consolation, the said partner hasn't a clue about the Russian's private life.

_What the hell is Illya Kuryakin doing when he goes home?_

_He felt exhausted but relieved. Coming back home was a real delight. He usually carried an air that kept people at a safe distance; home was his haven of peace, of truth. The place where he could be himself. A haven of hedonism, far from the villain, far from Uncle. He knew that the way he behaved was bound to rile many people around him, but it was worth the price. He smiled blissfully as he entered home, when familiar hands grabbed him, pulling him into a tight embrace. A soft voice whispered._

_-What the hell is Illya Kuryakin doing when he goes home?_

_He sighed, and pushed the whisperer towards the bedroom._

_-Love, Napoleon, as if you didn't know!_


	4. Chapter 4: Rain and fire

The prompt was a photo: a small cake with a birthday candle

RAIN AND FIRE

The rain had been falling since morning and though he couldn't hear it, he knew that it was still raining, he felt it. Rain could be a pleasant thing. A summer rain, refreshing the air, washing all the dust of the day... This was a gray, persistent, dark, boring, cold rain. Treacherous. It looked like to be a simple drizzle, a mist. Then, just a few steps later, you were damp, soaked, drenched, like a drowned rat. And you were cold, so cold. And alone.

Of course, he was not. Damp, soaked, drenched, like a drowned rat, cold. His office was warm and brightly lit. And deserted. Suddenly, he burst into a bitter laughter. It was so stupid. All he had to do was to go out of this room, to prowl around. In no time, he would find a willing prey, take her out for dinner. He did that, usually, for years.

His partner hadn't shown up for days, eleven days. No, twelve.

The rain had been falling since morning, and it was still raining. The gray, persistent, dark, boring cold rain, filling the evening air with a deafening lapping. Heavy drops hammering, continuously. And as he walked along the sidewalk, he was damp, soaked, drenched. Like a drowned rat.

Beyond the gray curtain of water, the city was engulfed in black. He sighed, shook his head, and went back in his living room, cursing himself for being such a traditionalist. His partner was fine. He had fulfilled his assignment, and would be back soon. Soon, but too late. Napoleon Solo chuckled, as he vowed never to tell his friend about this. Illya Kuryakin would raise his eyebrows, looking at him with an amused compassion, and probably mutter something about American sentimentality. He was shivering and headed towards his bathroom, when a familiar ringing gave him a start. What the hell...? He got his gun and came up to the door, silently. No more ringing, just silence. The Uncle agent lit off, unlocked the door, and took some steps back, aiming at the unexpected visitor.

A faint, quivering light appeared.

A small, pink candle.

A small cake.

A blond Russian partner, concentrating on protecting the flame. A smile. Twinkling blue eyes.

"-Needless to say, Napoleon, at this time of the night, it was not easy to get a more convenient cake..."

"Illya? Waverly told me that..."

Illya Kuryakin put his burden on the table, and turned toward him.

"One year, Napoleon. Just one year, today. Would I have missed it?"


	5. Chapter 5: Because

The prompt was... Because

BECAUSE

The rain had been falling for what they could assess to be an eternity. Everything around them, trees, leaves, grass, moss, rocks, gravels were flowing, lapping dripping. Water was relentlessy running throug their hair down to their faces, blinding them, down to the nape of their necks, to their backs. However, they didn't feel it anymore, for they were drenched to the skin. No. For they were turning into liquid element.

The sun was burning them almost to death for what they could assess to be an eternity. Everything around them, plants, gravels were scorched, calcined. The light, a dazzling, merciless light was blindig them. No shadow, no night. No breeze, no air. No sweat, no saliva. They didn't feel the heat anymore. For they were about to turn into dust.

Snow, ice were whipping their faces, as they were clinging to the cliff.

Explosions, shootings were surrounding them, as they were escaping from Hell, dragging the innocent away from their enemy.

Gas. Drugs. Poison.

Fear. Pain.

Hope.

Home.

Love.

Napoleon Solo was sitting next to the fireplace, looking thoughtfully at the flames. Illya Kuryakin leaned over his lover's shoulder.

"He who has a why can bear almost any how."


	6. Chapter 6: Damned demand

The prompt was: Damned

DAMNED DEMAND

We're in limbo. What's my name? He's holding my hands tightly. Our fingers are intertwining. Warm, glutton lips are brushing my temple down to my neck. His ravenous tongue is licking my skin. He possesses me. All of me, greedily. He has captured me, angrily, defying the rules, defying the world. He possesses me, violently, relentlessly, deliciously. His lips are stealing my breath, my moaning, hissing, like a treacherous, adorable snake. "What's your demand?" His blue eyes look at me. "I think the devil won't have us damned, Napoleon, lest the heat that's in you should set hell on fire..."


	7. Chapter 7: Spy vs Spy

The prompt was: spy

SPY VS SPY

We're back to the wooden cabin. The mere sight of him makes me shiver. He points at the outside shower, inquiringly, but I'll let him go first. I am exhausted. I sit down on the grass, by the sun, leaning back against the old dry stone wall, and I close my eyes. He has picked up a towel. His white shirt is in rags at the front. Did I say it? The mere sight of him makes me shiver, the medal glittering through the tatters, the pink nipples playing hide and seek, here and there, the blond hair chest, one or two shades darker than his wet locks. He stretches himself, turning his back to me. Amazing. I don't move. I don't want him to know. The white shirt is intact, the wet clothe fitting so closely round his powerful shoulders, his thin waist, emphasizing the cleft, in the small of his back. The mere sight of this body both so slender and so muscular makes me shiver. He's undoing the two buttons left. He could tear off the tattered shirt, but, no. He shakes his head, staring at it. His golden skin looks so smooth. Suddenly he turns to me. I am innocently asleep. No clue. I am perfectly relaxed, my jacket casually dropped across my hips. No evidence. I won't dare and try to peep at him through my eyelashes right now. He can't guess. I am a spy, well-trained, brilliant.

"Napoleon?" He's close. I didn't hear him walking. He's a spy, too. I can feel his breath on my temple. I have to wake up, but suddenly my jacket is sliding away from my groin. "Your jacket will be spoiled if..." He stops talking.. He sees. He knows. He knows from the beginning. He's a spy.


	8. Chapter 8: Silent Movie

The prompt was Silent

SILENT MOVIE

Will versus will. Stormy hazel eyes meeting deep blue ones. Slow, endless thrusts, undulating hips. Hands grabbing hands, squeezing them. Flat, sweaty stomachs hitting each other, silently. Half open lips, mute with desire, suddenly pressed into a shoulder to silence their panting. Smooth lips mercilessly licking along a temple down to an earlobe, whispering a silent chuckle, and suddenly choking with an intoxicating panic, as he realized he wouldn't be able to smother his moaning. Strong legs locked around him, strong palms dragging his face, unfathomable blue eyes drowning him. Burning lips silencing each other's cry. So thin walls. Silence.


	9. Chapter 9: Ritual, and Parole, Parole

Jules Cutter had immediately reported to a both puzzled and relieved Waverly. Then, he looked for Napoleon Solo in his office. The man was leafing through a file absentmindedly and peeped at him mechanically.

"Solo... Illya Kuryakin is back. He woke up a few minutes ago and..."

He paused... Nothing. He didn't expect that. The old Napoleon would have leaped from his chair, raced towards Medical. No one could have prevented him from seeing his friend. Wrong, Cutter thought. The old Solo would have been stuck by his partner, at the moment.

Instead of which the dark haired man sighed faintly and gave him the ghost of a smile.

"I guess that Doctor and nurses are looking after him."

_That never stopped you trying_... Cutter nodded, taken aback, but the other lost in thought paid no attention to him. He cleared his throat.

"He's extremely weak, of course, but, well, he did recognize me."

Napoleon Solo kept a faraway look which made Cutter uncomfortable but he insisted.

"I think he'll do well, with time."

The ghost of a smile, again, which faded instantaneously. Solo got up calmly.

"I must talk to Mr. Waverly."

"I told him, Solo, he knows..."

The other man ignored him, heading to the corridor. Cutter took hold of his arm as he went out.

"Damned, Solo! He asked for you!"

"Oh."

No surprise, just evidence. Napoleon Solo got free politely.

"I have to talk to Mr. Waverly."

"He told your name, Solo. You..."

He talked to a brick wall... Cursing, he followed the agent.

* * *

><p>"You know the place, Mr. Solo. You know the Doctor. Mr. Kuryakin will be..." Alexander Waverly hesitated, considering his agent's inscrutable face. "It's the best. They'll take care of him, see at his safety and..."<p>

"No."

"No?"

Jules Cutter leaned back against his chair giving Napoleon Solo credit for his self-assurance, but Waverly's tone betrayed his lack of understanding. The Old Man was frowning, probably on the edge of harrumphing. The dark haired man didn't look like to be impressed, to say the least, nor defiant. He didn't confront his superior. He had stated his opinion. "No." Period.

"Mr. Solo..."

Napoleon Solo stood upright, bent over the round table, laying his hands flat on it and he repeated flatly.

"No." Then, he went on, hammering out his words. "As soon as possible, I'll take Illya to Mousehole, at Mikey's home."

Waverly kept silent for awhile. The pipe strategy... Jules Cutter could have predicted it. The Old Man checked the pipe, filled it carefully, with no indication as to whether he had paid attention to his agent's words.

"Sit down, Mr. Solo."

Solo hesitated. Waverly raised an inquiring eyebrow, pointing his pipe at the chair.

"It's an attractive idea, Mr. Solo."

But... Because there was a "but". The dark haired man sat down, keeping his eyes in Waverly's. There was a "but". He knew about the "but": safety, medical cares...

"Of course..." Waverly paused to light the pipe and took a puff at it. The pipe strategy... "Of course, we could make the place safe, and see at the medical cares."

But...? The Old Man's face showed concern.

"Mousehole is quite far from New York, Mr. Solo. You... It wouldn't be easy for you..."

Alexander Waverly searched for words. Apparently. Of course, he didn't. It didn't fool Jules Cutter, not Napoleon Solo.

"I mean... Mr. Kuryakin will need his friends. He'll need you. Mousehole is..."

Napoleon Solo raised his hand.

"You..." The dark haired man paused, offering a grim smile. "You want me to organize the meeting, sir. I'll have very few spare time. Your ... clinic is a calm, peaceful place. A cold one. The Doctor, the nurses are efficient. They're nice. They're... boring..."

"And?"

_I don't trust them..._ But he couldn't say that. "That's all, sir. Mikey will take care of him."

Alexander Waverly played with his pipe, almost absentmindedly.

"So, Jules, what do you think?"

_Oh, thank you, sneaky old fox_... Mousehole... Mikey... Jules Cutter kept memories of his first meeting the fisherman, determined to fight in order to protect his "protégé", a young man he knew for a few hours, a man who had just been released from jail... He took a deep breath.

"The clinic is safer..."

Napoleon Solo stiffened imperceptibly.

"Mikey..." Cutter sighed. "Mikey is family."

Alexander Waverly rested his chin on his palm, thoughtful.

"Well... we'll ask Mr. Kuryakin about what he wishes."

* * *

><p>The thought of death had made him feel both bitter and almost hopeful. Hopeful, as he had realized that for days, months, years, he'd be a limp, powerless body, a vegetable unable to survive on his own, unable to communicate, and desperately aware of his condition. Bitter because of all he'd leave unsaid and undone. Just too bad.<p>

Nothingness.

He had been terrified.

Chaos.

Gentle words, harsh tone, voices comforting, begging, scolding, yelling...

Hands squeezing his wrist, grabbing him roughly, shaking him up and down, dragging him mercilessly into life...

He was alive, back in Medical.

People were fussing over him, doctors nurses. They were encouraging and reassuring. Everything was okay. He was doing well. He would be fine.

"Oh, and... Do you remember your name? Who is your partner? Where are we? Can you move that finger? Do you feel this?"

Perfectly reassuring. They pricked, poked, pushed, pulled him relentlessly.

"My name is Illya Kuryakin. My partner is Napoleon Solo." _Where the hell was he, by the_ _way?_ " We are in the Uncle HQ, in New York. Yes, I can move it. Ouch!"

"You're doing well, Mr. Kuryakin. Oh, and, who is Mr. Waverly? Can you squeeze my hand? Do you feel this?..."

_Napoleon_... Ouch! _Please._..

He was alive and exhausted.

And happy.

* * *

><p>The Doctor pointed at the chairs in the corridor.<p>

"Don't ask me why, how, I couldn't tell you. Illya Kuryakin will pull through. Of course, he'll need some rest, some physical therapy, but he's fine. Really." He looked at each of them. " I mean... in one month, I'll qualify him for light duty. And then..." The man smiled.

"He's awake and you can go, now. Just one thing... He's slightly grumpy."

Napoleon Solo chuckled with delight. Something had just been torn to pieces, something like a heavy curtain, or a fog which had kept him cut off from reality for days, weeks. Everything got back in its place, for the first time since he had left the clinic.

Illya was alive. He was doing well. He was grumpy... and probably hungry...

"Grumpy? So, by the way, he's fine. Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much."

The man raised his hands.

"Mr. Kuryakin survived despite the blast, the falling, the drowning... He... Well, that's luck, Mr. Solo. First of all, that's luck."

"And stubbornness..."

Alexander Waverly peeped at his agent with amazement. He had been put under a great strain for weeks, and suddenly... Suddenly he was back to his old self.

* * *

><p>"He regained consciousness, and you have to know that he... He's fine." He paused for a second, breathless. " And... I won't do anything!"<p>

"Ts ts ts, Doctor... You'll do exactly what you'll be told to do...'


	10. Chapter 10: Gordian knot

GORDIAN KNOT

They saved innocents. Every time, everywhere, they saved innocents.

They were expendable. Every time, everywhere, they were expendable.

They had saved the world. No. He had been captured.

His partner had saved the world.

The evil device had collapsed.

He lay sprawled on the ground, feeling the bite of the ropes around his wrists, his ankles. He had tried to loose them. Every time, a piercing, violent pain ran through his arms, his legs, his whole body. Every time, the Mad Hare sneered maliciously, sipping at his tea, unconcerned about the dust. Unconcerned about the danger.

Gravels fell from the ceiling, here and there. His hands didn't hurt any more. He didn't feel them. He didn't feel the ropes. Bonds were about to be broken. Bonds with the past. Partnership bonds. Friendship bonds. And... no, nothing more. He bit his lips, bitterly. "An unwritten story...". The Cheshire Cat had taken over from the Mad Hare, shaking his head with compassion.

He closed his eyes, being in no mood for listening, but the cat's whiskers were tickling his cheeks, and two strong paws grasped him, freeing him from the rope, helping him up. A blond, dusty, blue eyed cat. "I hate unwritten stories, my friend"


	11. Chapter 11: history

THE LESSON OF HISTORY

The fight had been merciless. He sat down on the limp body, releasing his wrists. It was no use. The man had been defeated. He knew it.

Victory was exciting. He smirked, bending over the man, until his lips brushed the cold temples. The other kept his eyes closed, but he was alive. "Mine..."

His shaking fingers were fighting against belt, buttons. A desperate, vain fight. He cursed.

Suddenly, he found himself lying on the snow. Soft blond locks tickled his face. Blue eyes smiled at him. "Never Napoleon could defeat a Russian in the snow. You didn't remember history?"


	12. Chapter 12: Ice

BLOODY ICE

He had opened his heart to him, naked, and the other man had just averted his look, keeping silent, neither angry nor scornful. Since, he acted maddeningly normally. Every word, every move, every touch were torture.

He had wished it could be cruelty, but it was just indifference. Now, he held the perfect weapon. He needed no gun, no knife. An ice blade, cold, sharp, pure would kill him, and melt. He squeezed it tightly.

Blood and water poured from his hand, his life and his hope. His partner slept peacefully, offering his throat. He was babbling three magic words. The ice splintered.


	13. Chapter 13: Don't

IF YOU LEAVE ME

_"The only thing you take with you when you are gone is what you leave behind"_  
>John Allston<p>

"If you leave me..."

He stopped, staring absentmindedly at the man's back. Was he really about to start an emotional blackmail? Was he about to scream ? The man stood, motionless, with his suitcase, his right hand in his pocket. He was waiting... But, no, he wouldn't give him this satisfaction. He wouldn't humble himself... more.

If he left him? He was leaving! Life would be... easier. He wouldn't have to put up with his bad mood, his offended looks, his glare, his jealousy.

_"__If you leave me..."_

_He paused, waiting hopelessly. He refused to re-open the hostilities. He refused to apologize. Now, the man was about to blackmail him? To threat him? But no, he kept silent. He thought bitterly that he was probably satisfied with how things had turned out. The man had maneuvered skilfully, in order to make him feel guilty, as the malicious Othello. He was so good at it..._

_If he left him? He was leaving! Life would be ... easier. He wouldn't have to put up with his prowling moods, his swaggering look, his self-centeredness. He gripped the keys in his pocket_.

He would have to meet him everyday. He would have to work beside him. He would have to ignore him... and to be ignored, as well, but time would go by. Later... Later, perhaps, they would be ... friends again. They would laugh about it. A sudden shiver ran through him.

_He wouldn't meet him anymore. He wouldn't be able to work beside him. He wouldn't be able to ignore him, to be ignored. He would leave would go by, and everything would fade... Except for... He dropped the keys on the table, wishing he would even be able to walk towards the door_.

"Don't!"


End file.
